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and dust cluttered the room. Dad—a broad, husky fellow with Ireland in his blood—was stuffed on a torn couch, covered in a thin quilt my sister made him a few years ago for Father’s Day, and had his pillow planted over his head.
    At the foot of the couch was the stereo, the only fixture in the place that was clean and in impeccable condition, blasting Right Next Door to Hell by Guns N’ Roses. And there was John, in his skivvies, with a beer in his left hand and his right fist pumping the air yelling, “Merry Fucking Christmas Everybody!”
    The brief exposé was over and John went back to his room, stereo continuing to blast. I left everything the way it was and went back to bed. This was John’s house and we were his guests.
    After the divorce, my sister, Emily, ran away with her high school sweetheart, Dan Wyley , to who knows where—she sends me a postcard from the various places they’ve traveled every now and then, letting me know that she’s doing well and not to worry. Hopefully, for her sake, she is fine and not stuck in some hellhole, ditched by her idiotic boyfriend, scrounging for money, and too proud to come back home.
    Home. I guess there is no longer a home to come back to. The home that we once belonged to, the one Dad built for us, was a small cottage house—in Lake Tahoe near my mom’s parents’ cabin—charming, and tirelessly built with his sweat and love. We lived in a small apartment in San Diego before that. Dad worked and scrimped and saved to make Tahoe happen, to make us happy and together, and we finally moved up there when I was eight years old. Apparently, the plan did not go as planned…
    My mom, Brenda, flew to Italy—with the money she won from the divorce settlement, which was pretty much the whole kit and caboodle—to go find herself.
    As for me, well, since I was only thirteen, I decided to follow Dad back to sunny San Diego and live with him there. Since Dad was only left with a trash bag full of stuff, mainly his clothes, and a few dollar bills in his pocket, John was nice enough to let us crash at his place in the suburbs until things got better.
     
    Christmas was no longer the color-book Disney fairytale it once was. Just a few years ago, my family—Mom, Dad, Sister, Grandma, Grandpa, aunts, uncles, and cousins—were spending Christmas at my grandparent’s cabin. We all huddled by the fireplace, opening what seemed like hundreds of presents to a nine year old, laughing and drinking hot cocoa or eggnog by the beautifully lit noble fir tree.
    I remembered it vividly. Memories filling my nostrils as I breathed them in, forming indelible pictures in my mind. The room smelled like pinecones, cedar, cookies, and apple cider. The Charlie Brown Christmas CD was set on repeat and playing quietly in the background.
    I was sitting on a comfy upholstered couch, staring into the flowing wax that pooled beneath the wick of each calm , unflickering flame. Minutes and sometimes even hours went by as the aroma emitted from the dazzling flame hypnotized and intrigued me. Candles were lit throughout the many rooms—a nice accent to the blistering flames arising from the nearby hearth.
    There were stockings full of treats, reindeer candle holders, red paper napkins with tiny Christmas trees printed around the borders, stuffed Santas , wreaths, candy canes, and Christmas knick-knacks galore (on book shelves, on tables, and on the floors). Grandma always went crazy for the holidays. She created a warm and inviting place where my family could express their love. It was cozy. It was comfortable. It was Christmas. And now…well, now there was John.
     
     
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    It was 2:00 P.M. when I decided to roll out of bed for the second time that day. I put on my blue track pants, white undershirt (sniffed the yellowed armpits first to make sure they were clean), socks, tied on my running shoes (probably the most expensive thing I owned), threw on a hooded sweatshirt and ran out the door.
    The